At twenty-five, I had a reasonably coherent theory of my own personality. I knew what I liked, what I was good at, and what kind of person I was trying to become. I was wrong about most of it — not catastrophically, but in the specific, useful way that only time and friction can reveal.
The first thing I unlearned was the belief that productivity is a moral quality. I had spent years treating my output as evidence of my worth — a correlation that seemed obvious and virtuous right up until it quietly destroyed three relationships and one very good creative project. Output is not identity. I know this now. I forget it constantly.
You grow by subtracting
the wrong assumptions."
The Comfort Trap
The second unlearning was harder: comfort is not safety. I had arranged my life very carefully around things I was already good at, people who already liked me, projects where the outcome was already likely. This is called playing to your strengths, and it is also — I now understand — a sophisticated form of hiding.
The things that have mattered most to me in the past two years were all things I was not good at when I started. The discomfort I felt approaching them was not a signal to retreat. It was information — specifically, the information that something real was at stake.
What Staying Means
I used to think friendship was about finding people who understood you. I now think it's about finding people who are honestly confused about the same things you are — and who choose to remain in the conversation anyway. Understanding is overrated. Staying is what matters.
The people I trust most are those who have seen me be wrong, and continued to believe in my capacity to be right. That's not loyalty. That's a specific kind of intelligence — the intelligence of seeing past the current version to the possible one.
The thing about twenty-five: it is exactly old enough to have made enough mistakes to learn from, and young enough that the lessons still feel like discoveries rather than regrets. That's a narrow and lucky window. I'm trying to use it well.
On Time
The third unlearning is still in progress: I am not as far behind as I think I am. The comparative anxiety of a generation that posts its achievements publicly is a specific and modern form of suffering, and I have been very susceptible to it.
The people who seem furthest ahead in their twenties are not always the ones who end up living the best lives. The people who seem to be taking the longest time are often doing the harder, more interesting, less photogenic work of actually figuring something out.
I'm trying to be the second kind of person. Some days this is easier than others.